


betrayed

by littlemiss_m



Series: Whumptober 2018 [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: (it's the end of the world y'all), BAMF Prompto Argentum, Blind Character, Blind Ignis Scientia, Hypothermia, Violence, Whumptober 2018, Wilderness Survival, World of Ruin, Xenophobia, being left to die, but no character death, vaguely suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-07-26 00:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16208648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemiss_m/pseuds/littlemiss_m
Summary: Prompto knows the other hunters don't like him, but considering the world they now live in - a world where every man is needed - he assumes they'll stop at slurs and jeers. They don't.





	1. betrayed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober day 6, "betrayed."

He really didn't expect the hits, but as he stumbled onto the forest ground, he wondered if he should have seen them coming. Ever since the lot of them were grouped together for this hunt, Prompto had been at the receiving end of dozens of bad looks, of slurs and curses being spat at him, of too many things for him to list... but each other was all they _had_ in this world of ruin, and so he'd assumed they'd stop at nasty words and rolling eyes. Really, with the way their current leaders highlighted unity as the only means to survival, Prompto had no reason to second-guess that assumption; not until he found himself spitting rotten leaves out of his mouth as a group of grown-ass hunters jeered down at him.

”Fucking Niff,” one of them ground out. In the darkness, surrounded by the distant cries of daemons, with his head spinning from the fall and exhaustion both, Prompto couldn't make out who it was – not that it would have mattered. ”I don't understand what the fuck those army guys see in you. Yeah, sure, you're a good shot, but so are all MTs. You're nothing special.”

”It's cuz he hung out with the prince,” someone else joined in. Prompto tried to get up from the ground but a boot slammed hard onto his back, pushing him against the damp ground once more. Pebbles and little sticks ground into his skin and he grunted, pressing his palms on the ground in an attempt to get up, but the person holding him down wouldn't relent. Panic was starting to flood his veins; they were on a hunt, in the middle of nowhere, hours and hours of driving from the nearest haven, nevermind the actual outposts. ”Sidled in to the _good_ people while he still had the chance, and now that his secret's outta the bag, they still think him a human. As if!”

Prompto ground his teeth together, unsure of what to do. It was becoming obvious to him that the hunters wouldn't just let him go, that there was no chance of getting them to back off with just a few words, but – he couldn't just fight them, either, not when they were already short on proficient hunters and fighters who could take on the daemons trying to advance on the the few cities and towns they still had. Noctis would want him to fight, Prompto knew, but Noctis wasn't here, probably wasn't even aware of what the situation was like right now, and – they needed all the hunters they had. As the boot on his back retreated only to slam down again, harder this time, Prompto grit his teeth together and thought of everything this group of five people could do, of everything he himself couldn't do – and he knew, _he knew_ he was in the wrong, that he should've just fought them but he couldn't and so he didn't.

When someone's metal-plated shoe dug into his ribs, Prompto curled into himself, his fingers lacing behind his neck, and thought of the refugees, the entirety of mankind, and bit back the wail of pain threatening to spill free. He could have easily summoned a gun or a machine, or even one of Iggy's daggers or a small sword, could have fought and killed, restrained and immobilized, but – in this world, five people capable of fighting weighted a lot more than one person of the same capabilities, and so he didn't. He took the hits, the kicks, the laughs and the jeers. He guarded his head and chest the best he could, prayed to Luna and Noctis that the hunters would either leave him alive or kill him swiftly, because the alternative... he could still hear the daemons through the cries he could no longer hold back, and the idea of being killed by one was only slightly better than the possibility of being turned to one.

He didn't want to die, because one day Noctis would be back and in need of his support, but – the world was what it was, the alternatives one worse than the other, and – if he were to die here, then at least his friends would think he died doing something important.

* * *

Prompto must have blacked out at some point, because when he next opened his eyes, he was alone in the woods. His entire body ached something awful and it took him a moment to remember what had happened, to understand the situation he was in, and as soon as reality hit him, he felt ice flooding his veins. There were daemons somewhere nearby, and most of his belongings had been in the truck he'd sat in on their way here, but – he was alive, bleeding and broken as he was, and as long as there was life, there was hope.

That was one of the first lessons their new reality had taught them: hope. Spitting out blood and a loose tooth, Prompto got up on his knees, nervously feeling for his injuries. They weren't life-threatening, he soon noticed, but needed tending anyways, and the only items he had access to were those in the Armiger, and taking a potion out of the space meant it wouldn't be replaced till Noctis returned – they'd agreed very early on after his disappearance, Ignis and Gladio and him, to only touch those potions in the case of the worst emergency, and this wasn't yet one, but–

–closing his eyes, Prompto prodded at one of his ribs. It was broken, obviously so, but his lungs felt fine. Still, to get back to civilization alive, he'd need to fight and move around briskly, and the broken rib was far too likely to injure him further, so with only slight hesitation, he gave in and summoned a potion. ”It's not a waste,” he murmured, squeezing his eyes closed as he held the potion to his chest, ”it's not a waste if it makes my chances of surviving this better.”

The healing effect washed over him in a wave of warmth, a burning pain here and there as his injuries knit themselves together, but soon it was over and Prompto felt colder than before. Though he could feel bruises forming where the worst of his injuries had been a second before, it was nothing new, a familiar soreness that told him he was alive and well. Heaving a sigh, he stood up and tried to find something familiar in the pitch-black darkness of the night. He had no idea where he was, but, well-

–he'd survived worse than that.


	2. stranded

Sitting still on the dead forest floor, Prompto stared into the darkness and tried to think of a plan that would actually work. His head hurt – from the concussion he'd diagnozed himself with, most likely – and his thoughts felt like they'd been padded with cotton fluff, the fear of death a cloying trap leaving him almost docile in the face of the worst scenario he'd ever faced in life.

Prompto didn't know where he was, and that was the first problem. He had a general idea of the direction they'd driven off to, but the dwindling paths they'd followed in search of the daemons had left him disorientated, and the maps their group had been holding onto had not been in his possession in the first place. The nearest haven was still hours of driving away, the first outpost even further out, but that was more or less all the information he had.

Swallowing, Prompto squinted at the darkness. With his lights turned out, there was very little to highlight the forest around them, yet he was sure – almost, but enough to hope – that he could see the gleam of a silhouette in the distance, a tall hill or a low mountain, bare of trees and glinting against the starry sky. Mouth dry and tasting of blood, Prompto pushed himself into all fours, then onto his knees, then fumbled upwards until he was standing on feeble legs, ready to cry at the shots of pain littering his torso. The potion had healed the worst, he knew, and so the injuries left couldn't be that bad – yet they hurt, hurt him so bad, and in the crumbling world, the littlest of pains was enough to bring him down.

The hill was real. Prompto stared at it with watery eyes, sniffled once, twice, before patting his utility belt. He had his water bottle and a handful of protein bars, not much to go on, but he'd survived on less, both voluntarily and not. Trying to steel himself against the journey ahead, Prompto lifted his left arm, fumbled at the buttons of his watch until a dim light lit up the face. He had to press his wrist to his stomach to stop it from shaking, but soon the compass needle settled.

He'd be moving north-east for now.

* * *

The hill was not that long a distance away, but somewhere at the bottom of it, Prompto found a gnarly tree with roots rising high from the ground, creating a rabbit-hole large enough to fit one small man, and despite his pounding head and the howls of monsters in the distance, the temptation was too much to ignore. Prompto slept with his gun clutched in his arms, too afraid of the split-second it took to summon one from the armiger. He curled into a ball with his back against cold earth, knowing that if a daemon appeared, he'd have nowhere to run to. Still, to sleep, to rest, to close his eyes and exist on a plane separate from the hell around was a privilege he couldn't, wouldn't give up.

* * *

He made it to the top of the hill some twelve hours after leaving the forest clearing. He'd slept fitfully for a mere two hours, but it had been enough to leave him invigorated, and the gulp of water he allowed himself to drink every two hours had all tasted like the sweetest ambrosia on his tongue. At the hilltop, Prompto knelt on the dirt, conscious of his unguarded back, and ate half a protein bar.

He could see things. In the distance, a few hours' distance from him, the Red Giant his team had been sent out to kill was rampaging by a river gleaming next to the beast's fiery sword. Prompto panted, staring at the beast, knowing that was a direction he had to avoid – but the river twisted and turned through the forest spreading out below him, and Prompto knew he had a source of water now. 

He would have laughed if not for the danger surrounding him, likely sniffing out his tracks and following his footsteps. Instead, Prompto licked at his dry, crackling lips, the re-opened split the potion hadn't quite healed, and turned his head.

A familiar shape. Prompto squinted, tilted his head, wondered if he could be so lucky – but he could, because he and the other had traversed the land far and wide on their quest for Noct's armiger, and he was so sure, so sure, so desperately, miserably sure–

He was in the right area, Prompto told himself, swallowing the tears threatening to burst out and the following snot clogging up his throat and wetting his dry mouth. This was the area, and though he didn't know the details of the terrain around him, he knew the shape in the distance, the curling rock formations reaching for the skies like statues crafted by human hands, and if he was where he thought he was, then there would be a haven right behind the rocks.

”You gotta be sure, buddy,” Prompto murmured, tearing his eyes away from the rocks to continue looking around. The things he could see only continued to solidify his realization, and slowly, a small smile crept on his face. He had little food, still, and that was a problem he couldn't solve; there was little left to hunt or gather, but there were some emergency rations left in the armiger still, though he didn't want to touch those unless he absolutely had to. Absentmindedly, Prompto wished for a notebook or a journal, because having one stuffed into the armiger would have left him with a way of contacting Gladio and Ignis, the possibility of ”I'm alive, somewhere around wherever, send help” a miracle so tantalizing he barely dared dream of it – but Noctis had only ever used Umbra to communicate with Luna, and modern technology for everything else, and so there was no notebook to be used.

”Yosh, time to get going.”

Sighing deeply, wearily, Prompto heaved himself back onto his feet. Glancing at the watch, he decided to allow himself an extra gulp of water, knowing he'd soon reach the river. He didn't have food but he had water, and he knew how to take shelter, and in a day or two he'd be at the haven, and from there–

–well, he didn't really know what to do from there on, but at least he had something to reach for.

* * *

Two days and too many used bullets later, Prompto stood at his goal, staring up a mountain ledge that had nothing to do with the rock formation he'd taken it as. He'd seen what he wanted to see, he realized, stomach clenching painfully, his throat clogged up with fear and despair and whispers of how stupid he'd been, stupid-stupid-stupid, because now that he stood under the ledge he could recognize it for good, and now that he knew his exact location on the vast map of Lucis and surrounding territories, he had no choice but to face the facts.

He'd gone the wrong way.


	3. harsh climate

The Night was cold and dark, and that was all there was to it: a persistent chill seeping through the thickest of layers, a never-ending blackness no light could splice through. Sitting by a happily dancing campfire, Cor stared across the blue markings of the haven and tried to remember how, exactly, he'd kept himself moving for all these years now.

They'd lost so many people; _he_ had lost so many people. He was on his third king, now, and likely would have lived to see his fourth if not for the Astral's plan to remove the entire bloodline from existence. His mentors and superiors from decades before had passed, some during the worst of the war and some in the aftermath, from illnesses and looping ropes and old age, even, some of the last survivors lost in the fall of Insomnia. His peers were – dead or alive, if such a thing still mattered in these days, some outside the Wall and some inside it, never to step out again.

The ones he'd trained himself hurt the most, and though Cor tried his best, the blue of the haven still remined him of the eyes of one of his best men, and would that he could, he'd fix it all – but there was nothing to do, and so Cor closed his eyes with a shattered sigh and laid down to rest.

* * *

He woke up to the sounds of something living approaching the haven. The living and the non-living was a distinction driven into his blood many, many years before, when the sight of a daemon rearing up on its hindlegs had been new enough to send shivers of fear down his spine, and so Cor knew, even in the haze of sleep, that whatever it was would not be stopped by the remants of the oracles' blessings.

Blearily, grumpily, almost wishing for eternal sleep, Cor rolled to his other side and summoned his sword while trying to unglue his aching eyes. At first, he saw or heard nothing but the cracks and crunches of feet dragging through dead foliage. That the being, whatever it was, wasn't even attempting silence had Cor kneeling up, ready to pounce; an injured beast was not automatically a defenseless one, yet there was also the possibility of the creature lacking stealth on the simple virtue of it being strong enough to require none.

Whatever the option, Cor was ready. Slowly, he raised himself onto his feet, casting a glance at the last embers of his dying fire before returning his gaze to the darkness past the haven's edge. Something moved, there, something tall and thin, and Cor squinted at it, his eyebrows burrowing in confusion as his mind raced to connect the silhouette with the beasts he knew of. Nothing matched, except, except–

”Hello?” Cor called out, his heart starting to pick up speed. ”Anyone there?”

There were no hunting parties currently deployed to this area, hadn't been for a scarce two weeks since the last group returned one man smaller; it was the reason Cor had headed out in this direction in the first place. _To take care of the Red Giant_ , he'd said, _since those guys couldn't finish it off_ , but he had known – everyone had known – it a lie. He'd told himself not to hope, but he'd hoped all the same, praying and begging whenever he sat down, whenever the darkness around him swallowed his thoughts and senses, leaving him adrift in nothingness – he'd hoped, and had hurt for it.

”Hello?”

No answer. The shape was clearly human, clothed in something dark and shadowy, and briefly Cor wondered if it was a new kind of a daemon, if the scourge had found a new way to manifest in the hundreds of thousands of people lost to the Night – but then it stepped forward, lurching and almost falling, and the glint of the haven's blue light caught on blond hair and Cor felt a cry tear from his throat.

”Prompto?” he asked, tentatively, stopping his body from springing forward. ”Is that you?”

It couldn't be, not really – it had been approximately two weeks since the rest of his team returned to Lestellum, shaking their heads and muttering about a horde of daemons ambushing them, yet – Cor had survived worse. _Prompto_ had survived worse. There was a possiblity, no matter how small, how fickle, and there was no denying the familiarity of the figure fumbling through dying trees and bushes.

Cor waited, hands clutching his sword. In the darkness, Prompto appeared almost daemonic, shadows upon shadows, only the faint line of his silhouette visible in the eerie glow of the haven; he moved like a dying man, made no sounds, and Cor feared.

”Prompto?” he tried once more, heart so high in his throat he was sure he'd choke. ”Is that you? Can you hear me?”

Prompto – or whatever was left of him, and _gods_ , Cor could taste ash in his mouth already – tumbled forward, silent and ghost-like, eyes empty on his gaunt face. At the very edge of the haven he finally halted, swaying in place, and Cor found himself praying to gods he'd thought lost on him since the fall – and Prompto startled, as if only seeing Cor for the first time.

”Oh, it's _you_ ,” he murmured, voice so rough it almost disappeared into the winds, ”but I thought training was already over, sir?”

Before Cor could react in any way, Prompto began to crumble. Like a puppet with its strings cut, he listed forward, forward, forward, until his body could not stay upright any longer. Cor's first instinct was to rush forward to catch him, but as the thud of a body hitting cold stone echoed across the clearing, he knew he couldn't.

Half of Prompto's body was now in the haven.

For a long minute, Cor waited, palms sweaty around his sword. Prompto would have passed for dead if not for the gust of breath jostling his bangs rhytmically, proving him still alive, but Cor still did not move.

Prompto's hands were pale and bare against the runes. Nothing happened. No sizzling, no burning, nothing to point to a scourge infection – just a man two steps from dead laying on the ground. Cor waited, swallowed, waited some more. If Prompto had contacted Starscourge, then Cor would need to end him – and he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did. Not after all the other deaths he'd already witnessed.

Slowly, slowly, Cor felt the tension leak from his body. When nothing happened for several moments, he let his sword vanish into the ether and took a cautious step towards Prompto, then a second one, and a third, until he knelt by the blond's side. Carefully he dragged Prompto all the way into the haven, depositing him near the remnants of the fire, and threw a foil blanket over his body before building the campfire anew.


	4. hypothermia

The world around was dark and quiet as Ignis pressed on, fingers fumbling across the report printed in letters he was only beginning to understand. The small ridges still slowed him down, made his work a thousand times more difficult, but in the deafening silence of his new world – of his tiny little apartment, of which nothing existed but the dining table he sat at – it was nevertheless a means of clinging to something substantial. As soon as Ignis lifted his fingers and put away the papers, the thoughts would come running to him, to swallow him whole until nothing was lost.

(Noctis' disappearance was something he could deal with; he knew enough of the future to know that the lull they lived in was only temporary, and though nightmarish atrocities would eventually follow, Ignis could, in good conscience, claim that if nothing else, then at least Noctis was somewhere safe in that moment. But Prompto–)

Someone was running in the hallway outside the apartment. Ignis sighed and moved his fingers backwards to the word he'd been trying to spell out, carefully rubbing the most sensitive part of his skin against the little nubs dotting the paper. Frustration swelled in his chest and brought his lips into a grim line as he tried to focus on the letters in spite of the loud thudding echoing through the entire building. Head pounding along the approaching steps, Ignis grit his teeth together, pressed his fingers against the paper, but then the door to his apartment was slung open with enough force to likely leave a dent on the floor, and he'd had enough.

”What?” he snapped, pushing the papers away from him as his face turned towards the newcomer. ”Can't a man work in peace any–”

”Cor found him.”

The breathless gasp was enough to stun Ignis into speechlessness. He could still hear Talcott standing in the entranceway, panting heavily, but though Ignis had understood the words – had felt them pierce the very remnants of his already shattered heart – he didn't have it in himself to actually believe them. A small gasp fell from his lips, a wail of a ”no” cutting through the air, and he heard the door slam shut as Talcott's footsteps advanced into the living area, quieter now but eager all the same.

”I saw them,” Talcott murmured frantically, ”Cor was carrying him, told me to tell you to get everything ready–”

”He's alive?”

”–wha–yeah, he's alive, Ignis, he's alive, he was looking really sick and Cor said he's still got hypothermia, but he's alive and Cor didn't look scared or anything–”

Ignis pressed his palms against his temples, long fingers digging into the crumbling crest of his hair, and let the rambling words wash over him. Though he heard the sounds, he could barely make out the meanings behind them, his heart suddenly rocketing in his chest and demanding all his attention until he realized his world had once again shrunk into nothingness, at which point he stood up and reached for Talcott.

”You saw him?” he asked, grasping the teenager by the shoulders with only little fumbling. ”You're – you're sure?”

Talcott fell silent. ”Yeah,” he whispered after a moment, hands coming to rest in the crooks of Ignis' elbows, ”yeah, I saw him. He's alive, awake enough to talk to me, even. He apologized for not bringing me any cactuar toys this time 'round.”

Ignis felt like sobbing. ”And Gladio–” he began, letting go of Talcott in favor of marching towards the kitchen. ”Cor's bringing Prompto here?”

Talcott's footsteps followed him, one-two-three-four and stop. ”My friends are looking for Gladio, he's still in the city,” he said. ”Cor said we should get a bath and some broth ready, if you've got any left.”

Fingers already feeling for the refrigerator door, Ignis nodded; the three jars of chickatrice broth had been his goal in the first place. ”If you could please set the bath,” he murmured, ”I'll get the broth reheated in the meanwhile. Start with lukewarm water, not hot; we'll heat it up gradually when Prompto is in it.”

Talcott disappeared without a word and Ignis focused all his attention on the ice-cold jar of broth in his hands. He pulled out a saucepan from the cabinet above the sink and carefully upended the fragrant liquid into it, suddenly grateful for all the ginger and garlic he'd added into it while brewing it in the first place; it was only fair that Prompto's first meal home be something he'd actually enjoy.

When, minutes lates, heavy footsteps began to echo from the hallway, Ignis left the stove and the barely-steaming pot of broth. ”Watch the stock, please,” he murmured to Talcott, who had returned to the room moments before, and rushed to get the front door open. Cor was barely inside the apartment before Ignis set his hands on him, frantically patting across a broad chest until he found the form slumped over Cor's shoulders, a gaunt, cold face hidden under strings of greasy hair, the shapes and textures gritty and new but the shape familiar all the same. A strangled cry was caught in Ignis' throat when his fingers slipped into the gap between Prompto's neck and collar; however weak and sluggish, there was a beat.

”Ignis,” Cor sighed, a warning tone under all his weariness. He must have been exhausted from all the travel, especially if he'd carried Prompto on his back through days and nights, the terror of the new world and its endless darkness. Swallowing, Ignis stepped aside, then closed the door when he'd felt Cor pass him by.

”The bath is ready,” Ignis murmured, already headed for the bathroom, ”and Talcott will heat some broth for him.”

Cor grunted. There was a quiet thud of something heavy hitting the worn-out couch and Ignis reversed his steps, all but running for the living room area instead. Prompto smelled rank and disgusting under Ignis' sharp nose, but he was twitching weakly, garbled sounds rumbling from his throat, and for the first time in a very long time, Ignis felt hope.

* * *

Later that day, Ignis sat on the edge of Prompto's bed and listened to the blond sleep. Gladio had stumbled into the apartment while they'd been bathing Prompto and spooning hot stock into his mouth, and Cor had left soon after, a bowl of broth in his belly and dreams of a hot shower in his head, Ignis would assume. Talcott was gone, too, his earlier excitement already replaced with the weary sighs of someone about to head to work, but Ignis and Gladio still remained, both of them holding vigil over their slumbering friend.

”His temperature appears normal, now,” Ignis murmured, cocking his head towards Gladio, who sat on a chair by the wall. He brushed his knuckles against the soft skin of Prompto's forehead and sighed.

”It took Cor a while to get him here,” Gladio reminded him after a beat of hesitation. Ignis snorted; the worsening times had all but reversed their personalities. Where Gladio had previously wanted to believe in the best outcome in any situation, he now assumed the worst, and where Ignis – always the pragmatic – had once done his best to see the whole picture, he now found himself focused on the futility of hope.

”Perhaps a cup of tea would be in order,” Ignis commented, as if he hadn't heard Gladio speak up. ”I'm sure he will be waking up soon.”

Gladio grunted but said nothing as he stood up and left the room.


	5. self-sacrifice

His hands were unable to hold the half-empty mug of chicken broth up on his own, and so Prompto was forced to accept Gladio's help in raising the steaming cup to his lips. They'd been feeding him a few mouthfuls of Ignis' best broth every couple hours, now, for a day or two if his ability to grasp the flow of time had returned to him, though Prompto couldn't really say for sure – either way, that he had precious little strenght left in his body shouldn't have come as a surprise to him, not after nearly three weeks spent lost in the wilderness.

Prompto drank the broth greedily, almost whining when Gladio eventually pulled the empty mug away from him and replaced it with a class of tepid water. He could barely look his friend in the eye, and during the first feedings, Prompto had certainly been unable to; but now that strenght was slowly beginning to return to him, he was starting to understand that he'd soon have to explain just what had taken place during his time away.

He just didn't know what he'd tell the others.

All energy suddenly gone, Prompto shook his head with a weak mumble and leaned back into the plush pillows propping him up, refusing the last sips of water Gladio had tried to offer him. Blinking blearily, he glanced across the room at the sounds of an alarm clock ringing in the other room, and when he turned to his friend once more, he saw him nod while putting the glass away.

”Iggy's wake-up call,” Gladio explained. Despite the soft smile on his face, he looked exhausted – the by-product of staying up all night to take care of Prompto. ”You good to talk about things yet? Or do you wanna sleep some more first?”

Figuring that Gladio wouldn't mind if he took his time answering, Prompto closed his eyes with a weary sigh and, for a moment, simply listened to the sounds of Ignis moving on the other side of the paper-thin wall. It was his first, longer period of lucidity since he'd first woken up somewhere in the darkness, thrown over Cor's shoulders, and then in the bath, in the bed, every moment a flash of an image in his memory. He really didn't know anything about what had happened, but worst of all, he didn't know what would be the right thing to do in regards to the other hunters.

When Prompto next opened his eyes, it was to the sounds of Ignis entering the room. ”Guess I should just get this over and done with, huh,” he sighed, watching Ignis approach the bed with a worried, if pleased smile. ”Did – did the others make it back okay?”

Gladio nodded just as Ignis reached the unoccupied side of the bed. ”Yeah, they came back a couple weeks ago,” he answered readily enough, and something rolled over in the pit of Prompto's belly even as he pulled his knees up to give Ignis an empty space to sit on. The others really didn't know anything, probably didn't even suspect anything, and Prompto – Prompto was left with a choice he really didn't want to be making.

”I'm glad to hear you awake,” Ignis joined in, and despite the tangled mess of thoughts racking up a storm in Prompto's mind, he couldn't help but smile when he felt a hand pat around his ankle. ”Are you feeling better, then?”

Prompto nodded before he could remember Ignis' lack of eyesight. ”Yeah,” he answered, the syllables stretching into a wide yawn. ”Kinda tired. Could sleep for a century, heh.”

”Better not,” Gladio grinned. Next to him, Ignis hid a smile behind the back of his palm. ”So what happened out there, really?”

Grimacing, Prompto shifted against the fluffed-up pillows behind his back. ”Didn't the guys tell you?”

”Yeah, but–”

”We would much rather hear the story from _you_ , Prompto.”

Ignis' tone left no room for complaints or arguing, but even so, the very moment he'd cut Gladio off had all on its own been enough to sent Prompto's heart on an overdrive. It had been enough to tell him that they _did_ doubt something was wrong with the team's story, or that there was something they were concerned about, or that they were simply cross with Prompto over something – but he really didn't see the last thought being an option, regardless of what the voices at the back of his mind told him, and so he shoved it aside.

Sighing, Prompto turned his head to stare past Ignis. ”What'd the guys tell you?” he asked once more, no longer even pretending. Dejection was all he could hear in his own voice, and as the silence continued to grow between them, he felt himself sink into the pillows in exhaustion that had little to do with the state of his body.

”That the team was ambushed by a horde of daemons,” Ignis eventually explained, voice low but almost too kind, ”and you were separated from everyone else during the ensuing battle, after which you were nowhere to be found.”

A tired laugh spilling from his lips, Prompto threw his head back and laid his trembling arm over his eyes. ”Yeah, no,” he murmured, still chuckling darkly, ”just – no. No.”

A long beat of silence. ”What happened, Prom?”

Gladio's tone was almost desperate, and Prompto guffawed even as tears burned at his eyes.

”They just. Didn't really like that I'm a Niff,” he admitted once the laughter had died. Both Ignis and Gladio let out small sounds of surprise and rage, but Prompto tried to silence then with a wobbly have of his hand, his own eyes still hidden under the dead weight of his arm. ”So that's what happened.”

”That – that does not actually explain anything, Prompto,” Ignis pleaded over another pained sound coming from Gladio's direction.

”If you're trying to imply what I think you're fucking trying to imply–”

Exhaling loudly, Prompto dropped his arm and turned to face Gladio, blinking against the dimly lit room and the sticky water clinging to his lashes. Gladio fell silent instantly, an expression of pure rage and despair on his face, and even Ignis looked like someone had just set his recipe book on fire.

One more mention of his name and Prompto shook his head, swallowing around the weigth lodged in his throat. ”So they've been calling me things pretty much forever, yeah?” he started, pausing to wait for the others to ackowledge his words before continuing. ”And I figured they'd just stick to talking shit about me, right? Except that they didn't.”

”Are you telling me they've been fucking bullying you all this–”

”Gladio,” Ignis cut in, and though he sighed and wrung his hands as if exhausted, Prompto could hear the barely concealed fire in his words. ”Let Prompto finish.”

Prompto waited for Gladio to speak up, which didn't happen, before realizing he had no choice but to go on. ”Right. So they – cornered me when we were out looking for that Red Giant, and just – started beating me up.”

”And you let them.”

Rolling his eyes in swiftly building irritation, Prompto crossed his arms and stared straight at Gladio. ” _And_ I let them.”

The ensuing yelling matches that broke out next were likely loud enough to wake up the entire building. At first, it was Gladio yelling at Prompto, then Ignis yelling at Gladio while defending Prompto, then Ignis yelling at Prompto, then Gladio and Ignis yelling at each other once more, at which point Prompto let his body sink into the bed in an attempt at escaping the words and insults being tossed over his head. The bed, soft and warm as it was, proved an insufficient shield, and soon enough, he found himself grinding his teeth together.

” _Stop_!” Prompto bellowed, fingers clutching the blankets. Gladio and Ignis came to a halt and turned to him in unison, faces twisted into snarls and sneers. ”Just – fucking _stop_ already.”

Prompto was too exhausted to take the fighting on top of having to explain everything. He closed his eyes for what felt like a second but had to have been much longer, because when he opened them once more, he saw Ignis seated at the foot of the bed and Gladio pacing the floor behind him, both of them quiet but also very clearly unhappy.

”What were you _thinking_ ,” Ignis exhaled. He patted at the bed covers until his hand reached Prompto's leg and remained there. ” _Surely_ you must see your own importance by now, Prompto. Please tell me you did not just – give up like that. Please, Prompto.”

Snorting a laugh, Prompto rubbed at his eyes. ”Yeah, that's the fucking thing,” he mumbled, refusing to face Gladio, who had stopped in his pacing in favor of staring a hole into Prompto's very being. ”I _do_ know my worth, and that's _exactly_ why I didn't do a thing to stop them.”

Gladio lunged forward with a snarl, but Ignis' arm – stretched out just in time – stopped him from actually grabbing Prompto by the front of his shirt. ”I swear to the fucking Astrals, Prom,” he growled, now seated at the bed with Ignis' arm braced against the expanse of his chest, ”I swear I'll fucking kill you myself–”

”Gladio!” Ignis hissed, shoving Gladio backwards. ”Calm down at once, or–”

”Didn't you fucking hear that?” Gladio yelled, turning in Ignis' hold to yell at Ignis rather than Prompto. ”You can't just fucking–”

_”Won't you two just fucking stop with it already!”_

Prompto's entire body pitched forward with the force of his shout, but as soon as he was done, he slumped back into the warm cocoon of pillows, panting for breath as his fingers flexed against the sheets. ”I did the math, okay,” he hurried to speak, a steady burn growing at the back of his throat, ”I did the math and it was five hunters against one, and we don't fucking live in the kind of a world where we could just do away with five men, and – and it's not like I just fucking quit it right then and there, okay, I fucking _fought_ and did my best to survive, to come back alive, so. So stop fucking yelling about it already, okay–”

”You said you didn't even fight back!” Gladio yelled, one hand holding onto Ignis' arm where it still lay across his chest, and the other gesturing wildly in Prompto's direction. ”You _let_ them do all that shit! Shiva's saggy tits, Prom, you can't – did you even stop to think about us or did you just think, 'boo-hoo, no-one's gonna miss me,' did you – what about Noctis, huh?”

”That's enough, Gladiolus,” Ignis hissed, just as Prompto threw his arms up with a strangled yell.

” _Of course_ I thought of Noct!” he shouted. ”That's why I did it! Because what's the fucking _point_ of him coming back to save the world, if there are no people left to live in it! We can't afford to lose five men, and if _you_ , Mr. Advisor, and _you_ , Mr. Shield, can't see that, then I really fucking fear for the fucking future..!”

That, at least, brought a moment of stunned silence into the room. Prompto could see the emotions on both Ignis and Gladio's faces, and knew they had understood him, even if they hadn't accepted or agreed with his decision.

”Look, I know it looks bad, okay,” Prompto sighed, easing back into the pillows. All the shouting had left him beyond exhausted, and he didn't think he'd be able to stay awake much longer. ”But I didn't – I didn't just quit. I promise I didn't. I thought – I thought of the world and the people and Noct, and I wanted to come back to you all, I really did, and I tried to, but–”

”You made your call,” Ignis cut in, murmuring. Gladio made a sound that was half a sob, half a grunt, but said nothing.

”I did. And I – I didn't want to tell you guys, 'cause it's just gonna bring more problems now that it's all out in the open, and–”

”Let us deal with it,” Gladio exhaled. His voice was raspy and for some reason, that made Prompto giggle wetly. ”We'll – fuck it, I wanna kill those guys myself, but–”

”It was the right call.”

No-one said anything in the silence that followed Ignis' declaration. Prompto felt his eyelids weighting on him, but it was little compared to the weight of the world currently on his shoulders, and the sensation of someone getting off the bed – Gladio, he soon realized, and when had he closed his eyes – brought an alarmed whimper onto his lips.

”Don't tell Cor,” Prompto fumbled, trying to sit up and reach after Gladio, ”he's gonna kill them–”

”We live under martial law, Prompto,” Ignis reminded him gently. ”They will face their due punishments, nothing less, nothing more. It – it is true we cannot afford to lose good hunters, but we also cannot afford the growth of violent xenophobia amongst those of us still fighting to survive.”

”What he says,” Gladio agreed. He stepped up to the bed once more to lay his hands on Prompto's shoulders, gently pushing until Prompto laid down once more. He was smiling, but sadly. ”Go to sleep, kid. We'll deal with everything else, you just take care of yourself for now.”

Too tired to resist, Prompto nodded, his head heavy as a sack of tiles. He closed his eyes and exhaled, yawned around the inhale, then exhaled once more, feeling all the tension leak out of his body along the air passing through his lungs. In distance, he heard chuckles and quiet words, everything too blurred already, and then he was asleep.


End file.
